


Aziraphale and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by charliebrown1234



Series: 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, London Underground, M/M, The Blitz, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: A post church scene.Crowley and Aziraphale are trapped in a London Underground station during the Blitz, and Aziraphale gets trapped under the debris when a bomb scores a direct hit.Edit 8/24/19 Now with Fanart!





	Aziraphale and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Some Guys Have All The Luck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/976483) by [strangeandcharm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm). 



> There is now art for this story! Thank you to [Aussiepineapple1st](https://aussiepineapple1st.tumblr.com/) for their art skills.

“Lift home?” asks Crowley, not pausing to hear Aziraphale’s answer.

The demon shuffles through the charred remains of the church, brick detritus scrabbling beneath his burning feet. The church might be mostly destroyed, but the foundations are still consecrated, so he moves quickly towards less holy ground. Once safely on the pavement, Crowley turns and looks for Aziraphale.

The angel is still standing near the ruins of the altar. He isn’t doing anything, just holding the bag of books and staring into the distance. “Angel!” Crowley calls. Aziraphale jumps. “Hurry up!”

Aziraphale replies, “Coming!” and quickly makes his way toward Crowley. As he nears the demon, Crowley sees a strange look on the angel’s face. He’s known Aziraphale for just shy of six thousand years, but this expression is a new one. It almost looks like love. Overwhelmed, surprised, affectionate love.

He must have really liked the books Crowley saved. Shrugging off the angel’s dumbfounded expression, Crowley says, “The Bentley’s just around the corner. Didn’t want her to get damaged if our little miracle didn’t play out.”

“Our little miracle?” Aziraphale replies. “I seem to recall only one of us saving our skins.”

“Well, whose fault is it that our skins needed to be saved in the first place?”

“It was a perfectly honest mistake. Captain Montgomery’s papers seemed extremely credential.”

“Oh, extremely credential, I see.” Crowley’s tone implies the only thing he sees is someone played for a dupe.

“Hush, you,” Aziraphale pouts. “It worked out in the end, didn’t it? It was all part of the ineffable plan.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, opening the Bentley’s door and folding himself inside. “Ineffable plan my arse,” he grumbles. There is a creak of metal as Aziraphale opens his own door and settles onto the leather seats.

“To the shop then?” Crowley asks, adjusting his shades.

“Oh, yes please. It’s been a terribly long day.”

The Bentley pulls smoothly away from the curb and navigates slowly through the London streets, picking around rubble and debris. The silence in the car is comfortable until Crowley sees Aziraphale peering at him from the corner of his eye. He has the same (lovestruck?) look on his face as before, only now it looks slightly puzzled.

Crowley inspects Aziraphale’s face in the mirror, tracing his laugh lines and lingering on the smile curving his lips. He could have lost him today. A few minutes later and Aziraphale would have discorporated in that church. Just another casualty in the Blitz.

He shakes off a shiver and looks back to the road in time to slam on the brakes. There is a massive crowd of people ahead, pouring through doors and alleyways in one direction. His headlights illuminate the pack of humans, and several flinch away and look toward the sky.

Within seconds, a man runs up and pounds on the Bentley’s window, hissing, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? There are planes overhead, turn those lights off and get to shelter!”

Crowley turns the Bentley’s lights off with a click of his fingers and the car quickly finds itself surrounded by a mass of people. They all seem to be moving towards a London Underground entrance next to the road. Aziraphale faces him in the car and says, “What do you say, my dear? A few more miracles to round out the evening?”

Crowley scoffs and says, “I don’t think so, angel. I’ve already filled my quota of good deeds for the day. I’m going home.”

Aziraphale looks disappointed and turns back toward the window. “I suppose I’ll just have to thwart my own temptations then.”

“You’re going to what?”

“Thwart my own temptations,” Aziraphale says primly. “An overabundance of miracles would look rather suspicious, don’t you think?”

“You’re going to tempt people.” Disbelief colors Crowley’s tone. “All by yourself.”

“I’m perfectly capable,” Aziraphale responds.

“Oh no you don’t,” Crowley growls, “I’m not having you tempt people unsupervised. I’m coming with you.”

Aziraphale looks slyly at him. Crowley knows he’s being manipulated, but he also finds himself slightly reluctant to let the angel out of his sight. Besides, it can’t hurt to cause some mischief. He’ll probably get a commendation for destroying morale during the Blitz.

The two ethereal beings exit the car and join the stream of people moving toward the Underground entrance. As they begin to descend the stairs, the air becomes close and hot, and Crowley rolls his shoulders irritably as people begin to press in around him. Being surrounded by people has always reminded Crowley of hell. It’s one of the many reasons why he never takes the Tube anywhere.

As the stairs open up, families and individuals disperse toward beds and camp stools, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale standing on their own. Aziraphale gives Crowley a cheery nod, then wanders off to begin dispensing minor miracles. Crowley looks around and decides there really isn’t much he can do to make the humans more miserable.

Instead, he miracles up a pack of playing cards and persuades a group of older men to begin a game of poker. Gambling is, after all, a vice. This also allows Crowley to keep an eye on Aziraphale as he putters around the station.

The angel seems to be mostly miracling tea back into cups and occasionally performing a bad coin trick for fussy children. More often than not, the coin does not appear where Aziraphale expects it to, but the children giggle nonetheless. Crowley watches fondly from his position near the exit stairs.

In the distance, there are loud thumps, and the makeshift shelter grows quieter. A baby wails loudly, and Crowley sees Aziraphale bustle over to help.

The angel has never been particularly good with children, so Crowley eagerly watches to see how the encounter will play out. Aziraphale approaches good-naturedly, chatting amicably with the woman, then she gives him a tired smile and foists the baby into Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley smothers a laugh as Aziraphale freezes in place and looks dumbfounded. The mother pats Aziraphale’s arm gratefully and turns toward the end of the tunnel, presumably to use the toilet.

The infant shrieks louder and Crowley laughs out loud at the angel’s panicked face. Aziraphale turns and shoots him a glare from across the station, which only makes Crowley laugh harder. After catching his breath, Crowley drops his cards to the makeshift table and goes to rescue Aziraphale for the second time that night. But before he takes two steps, the shelter rocks alarmingly.

The dull thumps overhead are suddenly louder and closer, and as Crowley regains his footing he is overwhelmed by a sense of dread. He can feel it in his demonic core, something bad is about to happen –

There is a roar, and the tube station wall across from him bulges outwards and shatters. The shelter is plunged into darkness as the lights go out, and Crowley hears panicked screams. He can feel people running past him, almost trampling him in their desperation to flee, but he stands firm against the tide and squints at where he last saw Aziraphale.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see vague outlines of wings on the opposite wall. At the center of them is Aziraphale, holding the infant in his arms and the earth with his wings. He’s wedged himself between the wall and the platform for leverage, and he is shaking with effort. Then there is a sharp crack, and Crowley watches in horror as part of the ceiling caves in, crushing Aziraphale with bricks and concrete.

The tube station goes quiet as everyone turns towards the noise. Then Crowley is shouting “Aziraphale!” and sprinting towards where he last saw the angel.

Around him, torch lights are flickering on, catching Crowley in their beams. They also illuminate a familiar cream fedora, crushed almost flat beneath a large chunk of cement. “No, no no no,” Crowley groans. “You can’t discorporate on me now, angel, not after I walked into a church for you.” He begins carelessly throwing debris aside as he reaches out with his demonic powers, searching for the warm presence he knows almost as well as his own.

He finds it thrumming faintly several feet to the left of him, and with a scramble on the rocks that’s almost snake-like, Crowley is directly above Aziraphale’s presence. He summons a little demonic strength and reaches down to remove the large concrete slab.

There, collapsed on his stomach in a pocket of undisturbed earth, is Aziraphale. The angel is covered in debris from the waist down, and there is a large cut bleeding aggressively on his temple, but he seems mostly intact. Crowley’s heart lifts in relief and he reaches out with a touch to heal Aziraphale’s forehead, feeling the reciprocating sharp pain lance across his own. He shifts downward and gently cups Aziraphale’s cheek, lingering for a moment before saying, “Wake up, angel.”

With a groan, Aziraphale stirs, then stiffens abruptly, saying, “Where’s Charlotte?”

“Who’s Charlotte?”

“The baby, Crowley, where’s the baby?” Aziraphale’s eyes are frantic as he attempts to wriggle out from the debris. The angel doesn’t get far before there is a loud wail, and he ducks his head down in surprise. There, tucked beneath Aziraphale’s chest, is the baby.

“Oh, thank the Lord.” Aziraphale slumps in relief, then shifts slightly to the side to avoid crushing the now fussing infant. “Can you grab her, Crowley? I don’t know how stable this rubble is.”

“Of course, angel.” Crowley reaches down and slides the infant out of her guardian angel’s arms, shushing her gently all the while. As Crowley tucks her into his arms, she quiets almost instantly, enraptured by the image reflected in his sunglasses.

“How do you do that?” Aziraphale asks.

“Must be my demonic charm,” Crowley replies. Aziraphale harrumphs, then shifts uncomfortably in the debris.

“I hardly think charm has anything to do with it.”

“Shows what you know,” Crowley replies.

There is a scrabble of tile and brick to their right, and Charlotte’s mother barrels up the debris. “Is Charlotte okay? Where is she?”

“She’s alright, look, safe and sound.” Crowley holds the infant out, and the now crying mother receives her like a benediction.

“Please don’t cry, dear girl,” Aziraphale soothes from the ground, “She’s perfectly alright. Not a scratch on her.”

The mother turns her tearful gratitude on Aziraphale, saying, “Thank you, sir, God bless you.” She sniffs wetly, and then takes in the scene with horror. “Are you alright, Mr. Fell? Wait, that’s a silly question, you have half the Underground on top of you. Let me go get someone, I’ll be right back!” She darts off into the half lit gloom, baby Charlotte cradled tightly to her chest.

“You know,” Crowley says, “two bombs landing on you in one day is awful bad luck. Do you think this is part of the ineffable plan, too?”

“Hush, you,” Aziraphale replies tightly. Crowley turns, startled by the snappish response, and sees Aziraphale squirming in discomfort under the debris.

“Are you alright, angel?”

“No,” Aziraphale says shortly, “I’m stuck.”

“Why don’t you just miracle yourself out then?” Crowley asks, watching Aziraphale become increasingly frustrated at his inability to move.

“I’m rather tapped out on miracles at the moment, Crowley. The walls didn’t hold themselves up you know.” Crowley turns to look, and notices that while there are numerous cracks in the ceiling, the majority of the tube station is intact.

“Well, let me help then.” Crowley unfolds himself from his crouch and climbs up the pile a bit to begin shifting debris away from Aziraphale’s body. The first few small pieces move without a hitch, but as he yanks at a particularly stubborn chunk of concrete the pile shifts alarmingly and begins to fall toward the people gathered on the platform.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls, sounding strained, “Better not!”

Crowley climbs back down to where Aziraphale is laying, and says, “Better not?”

The shifting debris hasn’t been kind to the angel’s corporation, and Aziraphale looks pale beneath the dirt on his face. “Please don’t try to move anything. I did my best to make it stable before it all came down.”

“Well, why didn’t you make it stable without you underneath it?” Crowley asks, exasperated and becoming a tad worried.

“I was distracted,” Aziraphale replies tensely, “And I didn’t want to drop Charlotte. I had a duty of care!”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “That’s great, angel. Now you have a duty to hold up the Underground. How does that sound?”

Aziraphale is saved from having to reply by the arrival of several humans, armed with torches and good intentions. After Crowley briefly explains the situation to them, they dash away with a promise to bring blankets to make Aziraphale more comfortable.

When the helpful humans are out of earshot, Crowley sits down near Aziraphale’s shoulders. The angel’s hands are trembling minutely, but otherwise Aziraphale seems remarkably fine for someone with a tube station’s worth of debris on them.

As Crowley watches, Aziraphale grimaces sourly and squirms in place. “Are you sure you’re alright, angel?” Crowley asks, kicking himself even as the phrase leaves his mouth.

“To be perfectly honest, my dear, I’m rather uncomfortable. I don’t have any miracles left at the moment, and the concrete is quite heavy.” Aziraphale winces as the debris above him shifts.

“Let me help, then,” Crowley says softly. “I’ve got plenty of demonic miracles left, it’s no trouble.”

“No,” Azirpahale says sharply. “You think Hell won’t notice a demon healing an angel’s entire corporation? Besides, it’s too much. I don’t want to hurt you.”

This is in reference to one of God’s many ironic tricks played on demons. Demons, as everyone knows, are simply fallen angels, and as such retain many of their former powers. However, some demons had taken it upon themselves to abuse these powers, specifically by torturing humans and then healing them back up again for a blank canvas.

This, of course, would not do. God reached down Her hand and in one brutal stroke twisted the demons’ power of healing, so any demon performing such a miracle would feel that pain upon themselves. This curbed the idea of torturing and healing humans very quickly and, for the most part, healing was abandoned by those below.

“Besides,” Aziraphale continued, “that much healing would take too much from you, and I want you to save your strength in case something else happens.”

“Something else?!” Crowley boggled. “You’ve already been bombed twice in one day, Aziraphale, I can’t imagine anything else happening.”

“Don’t say that,” Aziraphale replies tetchily. “You know how the fates get. Besides, everything will be fine.”

“If you’re sure, angel,” Crowley says slowly. “So, what are you going to do about the whole ‘half a tube station collapsed on me’ situation?”

“I’m going to wait it out.”

“Wait it out?!” Crowley’s voice increases in volume and pitch.

“Yes. Once the bombing is over, we can send everyone away and I’ll have saved up enough energy to miracle myself out.” Aziraphale seems pleased with himself.

“That’s a terrible idea!”

“Do you have a better one?”

“Well, no,” says Crowley. Before he can think something up, the group of humans from earlier return with blankets for Aziraphale. They arrange them loosely underneath him, cushioning the uneven debris so the stones don’t poke at Aziraphale’s corporation. They’ve also brought water, which Aziraphale takes graciously and drinks. He manages about half the cup before setting it down.

Crowley takes the cup from him and retrieves his pocket square, wetting the corner and carefully running it over Aziraphale’s face.

“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale is clammy underneath the grime.

“Is there anything I can do?” Crowley asks, feeling helpless. The air raid sirens continue outside, mockingly reminding him that his demonic miracle is the catalyst for Aziraphale’s current situation.

“You can distract me,” Aziraphale responds honestly.

“Yep, alright,” Crowley says. He peels off his jacket and balls it into a rough pillow before stretching out on his stomach. At this angle, they are almost face to face, noses only a few inches apart. Aziraphale’s blue eyes bore into his own, and Crowley is briefly transfixed.

The normal cerulean shade is murky in the dim light of torches where it’s not entirely encompassed by Aziraphale’s pupils. They are blown wide in the dark, and Crowley finds himself discomfited at the sight of the normally angelic eyes being almost entirely black.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, blocking out the disturbing picture. Crowley gives himself a mental shake, then begins by saying, “Do you remember that one time…”

Over the next few hours, Crowley tells humorous anecdotes, repeats past misadventures, and generally tries to keep Aziraphale’s mind off his predicament. Aziraphale, for his part, dozes restlessly, drifting in and out of consciousness as the bombs continue to thunder overhead. Crowley assumes he’s trying to preserve energy.

Towards dawn, at the end of a particularly funny story about Socrates at a drinking party, Crowley hears the bombs grow closer. The tube station rocks ominously and a few tiles fall from the ceiling onto Aziraphale’s debris pile.

Aziraphale’s eyes blink open and the lines on his face draw tight in pain. “What was that?”

“They’re still bombing the area,” Crowley replies.

“Ah.” Aziraphale looks strained. “Surely, the likelihood of another bomb hitting…” Aziraphale trails off anxiously. There is a muffled boom even closer to the station.

“No, of course not,” says Crowley desperately. “That would be ridiculous. No one’s luck is that bad!”

But apparently Aziraphale’s luck really is that bad. A bomb lands nearby with an earth shattering roar and Crowley reaches up and out with his demonic powers, holding the Underground station together with sheer force of will. He’ll be damned if Aziraphale discorporates after all the effort he’s made to save him today.  
The ceiling groans and the walls rock, but after a few minutes (and an exhausted Crowley) later the worst of the destruction is over. The tube station is intact, and the humans are unharmed.

The same can not be said for Aziraphale. The second bomb has shifted the debris despite Crowley’s best efforts, and the angel is rigid with pain.

Crowley scrabbles through the debris and cups Aziraphale’s face. His eyes are round and huge and his breath hitches as he tries to breathe around the pain.

“Angel,” Crowley says intently. “You have to miracle out of here. Right now.”

Aziraphale looks at him uncomprehendingly, eyes wild.

“Aziraphale!” The angel chokes on air and Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s essence to siphon some of the pain. The agony hits him like a truck, and he collapses to his hands and knees.

Crowley drags himself upwards and leans over the angel, saying, “Miracle. Now.”

“Can’t,” Aziraphale grits out. “Don’t have it in me.”

Crowley himself is running low on miracles after trying to heal an angel and saving an entire Underground station.

Aziraphale groans helplessly, pain regaining territory now that Crowley’s brief reprieve is exhausted. “It hurts, Crowley…”

With a gasp, Aziraphale reaches out and grabs Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale’s grip is like the earth crushing him; powerful, painful, absolute. Crowley can only be grateful Aziraphale doesn’t have his angelic strength, for he surely would have broken Crowley’s hand.

The pain is returning to Aziraphale tenfold and the angel twists agonizingly in the debris.

“Oh god, Crowley, please, please help,” Aziraphale begs, “It hurts, Crowley, get me out, get me out, please –”

There’s nothing Crowley can do. He’s searched deep within himself and he is 100% tapped out of demonic miracles. Their only option is to wait out the Blitz.

“Get me out,” Aziraphale sobs. His cries echo in the Underground station. For a brief moment, Crowley is overwhelmed. Aziraphale’s desperate begging pierces his soul, his heart, his essence, and he sends up a prayer to someone that his angel will last the night.

“Kill me, Crowley. End it, please, I can’t take this anymore -” Aziraphale chokes, then howls anew as a surge of pain roars through him.

Crowley blanches. “Angel, I can’t, please don’t ask me to –” It’s so busy upstairs from the incoming souls Crowley doubts he’d see Aziraphale for ten years. He’s allowed to be selfish, surely!

Aziraphale pleads with him again, “Crowley, Crowley please. I’m sorry, whatever I did, please help –,” he chokes out another yell, “Please, Crowley!”

“I don’t have anything left, angel, I wish I could,” Crowley feels himself rending in two. Even if he tried to help Aziraphale now, Aziraphale would drown the both of them under the flood of pain. Crowley also needs to save his strength, as he doubts Aziraphale will be able to get himself free once the bombings stop. None of this makes withholding his slowly returning power any easier.

“Hush, angel, shh. Try to rest.” He sweeps a soothing hand over Aziraphale’s forehead and through his hair. With a sense of finality, he adjusts the blankets beneath Aziraphale’s restless head, and then returns Aziraphale’s desperate clasp on his hand. There’s only a few hours left ‘til dawn.

* * *

Years later, the people who spent the night in this particular Tube station will remember the bombs. Many will talk about how it was a miracle to survive both hits. Some will recall the man crushed under the rubble, and the man who stayed by his side. Only a few will remember how heartwrenching the cries of the trapped man were. No one will remember how the man who stayed cried bitter tears and held the trapped man’s hand through the long, dark night.

* * *

What feels like years later, the bombings stop and the all clear siren begins. Crowley lifts his aching neck and peers towards the stairs as hundreds of people shuffle out and up toward the daylight. Below him, Aziraphale gasps tiredly, energy exhausted. Somewhere after the first hour, his desperate cries had turned into aching groans. Eventually, even that was too much. Now Aziraphale lies limply, occasionally squeezing Crowley’s hand weakly when the pain spikes.

As the last humans exit the station, they leave torches pointed upward for light, and call out they’ll be back soon with rescue crews. With any luck, neither Crowley or Aziraphale will be here to receive them.

With a glance down at the semi-conscious Aziraphale, Crowley reaches down to the tiny flicker of demonic power he’s regained and snaps his fingers. For a brief moment, the pile of debris lifts, and with a grunt of effort Crowley yanks Aziraphale free. As soon the angel’s brogues clear the dirt, Crowley lets the pile fall again. It shifts ominously towards them, but Crowley refuses to imagine the rubble crushing them, so it doesn’t.

Aziraphale is facedown on the ground, writhing in agony. He doesn’t seem to be able to move anything below his waist, so he is reduced to groaning gutturally as he jerks in pain.

Crowley carefully turns Aziraphale over and places a hand on his chest, deliberately avoiding looking at the mincemeat that is the angel’s legs. With a deep, centering breath, Crowley dives deep and _reaches_ into Aziraphale, triaging the most desperate wounds.

With a breath he smooths Aziraphale’s heart back into its regular rhythm, heals the shattered legs, and seals the largest cuts. He stretches just a little further, hoping to finish the job, but things go dark and foggy.

* * *

Crowley comes back to himself on a surprisingly soft surface. He opens his eyes to a tan waistcoat, and he can feel a plump hand tenderly running through his hair. Crowley realizes he is lying on Aziraphale’s chest. However, he’s too tired to do anything about it.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” Aziraphale says quietly.

“Ssssshould be asking you that,” Crowley slurs. He closes his eyes again. He registers dimly that Aziraphale is still on the ground, but can’t quite remember why that’s important.

“Crowley, my dear, we need to leave. The humans will be back any minute, and I’m too tired to explain my miraculous escape.” Crowley doesn’t move, and the Aziraphale’s hand continues to card through his hair. There is a deep sigh, and Crowley hears the air whush out of the lungs below him.

“I can’t get up with you laying on me, Crowley.”

The words ‘can’t get up’ reverberate like air raid sirens in Crowley’s head, and he finds himself dizzily upright in a heartbeat.

“Aziraphale!” The angel looks a mess, clothes bloodied and covered in dirt, but he’s smiling. Crowley watches as Aziraphale gingerly pushes himself up to sitting, then the darkness in his vision swells and he finds himself listing forward and panting into Aziraphale’s collar.

“Deep breaths, my dear,” Aziraphale soothes, holding him close. “I’m afraid you rather overdid it. Catch your breath, and then we’ll go home.”

Home sounds nice. Tea, the smell of books, and sleeping on a too old settee in front of a fire. He can rouse himself for home. Crowley takes a few moments to let the darkness recede, then grumbles wordlessly against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Ready, my dear?”

“I suppose, angel.”

It’s a ragged and limping effort, but the two manage to lever themselves upright after several minutes. Aziraphale moves tenderly, not entirely healed, and Crowley sways like a telegraph pole, but they’re standing.

They make their way slowly toward the exit of the station, stumbling and tripping on the debris. For a brief moment, with their arms around each other’s shoulders and tied to each others waists, they are so intertwined they almost look like lovers in the semi-dark of the station.

But when they breach the stairs to the exit outside, the illusion is broken. Now all anyone can see is two dirty, dust covered men, hanging off each other’s arms.  
They both pause at the entrance of the tube station, squinting in the bright sunrise. Crowley twists to look at Aziraphale’s face. “So,” Crowley starts, “Lift home, then?”

Aziraphale smiles wryly. “That would be lovely, my dear.”

Then the two beings get into the Bentley and drive off into the sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: 
> 
> People did actually shelter in Underground Stations, and it wasn’t super safe. People would line up as early as 4pm to get a spot for the night. For more information, here is a [link.](https://mashable.com/2015/11/24/london-blitz-underground/)
> 
> This fic was heavily inspired by strangeandcharm's fic [Some Guys Have All The Luck.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/976483/chapters/1920859)
> 
> Also, the fantastic [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight/pseuds/drawlight) helped to edit. Their prose is simply fantastic, so go read all their stuff!


End file.
